


After We Have Travelled Thus Far

by alltheglitters



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 16:06:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheglitters/pseuds/alltheglitters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The inhabitants of the Burrow march on, but to where exactly? A glimpse into the Weasley household after the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After We Have Travelled Thus Far

**Author's Note:**

  * For [myr_soleil](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=myr_soleil).



> Thank you to withdrawnred for the great beta work.

_"Glee! The great storm is over!" _\- Emily Dickinson.__

 

 

 

 

 

_May, 1998._  
  
They reached here having bled for it. But this is the calm after the hurricane.  
  
This is Harry Potter and his friends finding a pot of gold that turned out to be nothing but a rusty cauldron filled with ugly, old shite at the end of the elusive rainbow.  
  
  
  
  
  
 _June, 1998._  
  
Each event has its own spiral of consequences, she learnt from books and lessons. _Each war has its aftermath, Hermione Granger learnt._ Four weeks later, nothing had changed; it seemed that nothing would. Ron still wouldn’t press his lips on her cheek when she woke him up in the morning, and her demands that he must get _up, up, up_ were ignored with the assistance of a particularly large pillow. After much persuasion on her part, a defiant response and _oh shut up will you_ , he scrambled lifelessly down the stairs. George and Ginny were already on their second glasses of milk. Sipping. Hermione wished that Percy, Charlie and Bill were still at home - it would take the pressure off the remaining members of the family. Ron choked down Molly's eggs and sausages without pausing, his fingers grazing Hermione's by accident. There would be neither complaints about the burnt crust nor the tangy taste of the milk from the Weasley clan these days. The silence was palpable that Hermione could hear the light, light pattering of rain against the roof, the taped windows. The wards must have magnified the sounds. They had been preparing for a storm after all.  
  
  
  
  
  
Sometimes she sat there as the world spun on without them, her head leaning against Harry's shoulder. Ron's callused hand trembled beside hers, while she rested her bare foot on his trainers. Home. That was what scheduled meals, rowdy redheads and a comfortable bed represented. Sitting along the windowsill, she witnessed the snowflakes falling. Spectacular patterns, like fingerprints. Gorgeous and fascinating, but she read that apparently they weren't one-of-a-kind after all. It was, statistically, a possibility that there were two in a million that resembled each other in thickness, length and style. How little-known this was! Similarly, people do not know them, him, him and her. Nobody would ever go through what they had, standing in the face of death on a minute-by-minute basis with their heads held high. They had outlived and outsmarted the Grim Reaper, every time! And as much as Rita Skeeter tried to through god-awful "journalism", neither an inaccurate biography nor history could truly portray their great feats and courageous efforts.  
  
  
  
  
  
Home - she had one elsewhere, once upon a time with two other people who meant the world to her, whom she had often neglected in the last seven years in favour of adventures and magical enchantments. Remembering Mama's kind, brown eyes and her father's nodding enthusiasm, she was an orphan all over again. Like yesterday and the day before that. She was a wicked human being for thinking this, but the idea of almost growing up without someone to look after her crept up and up and up until it grasped her chest and her neck. It was entirely her fault; she had made the decision - a stupid one, especially for her! - to spend her holiday here. Time and time again. At the Burrow. But she _had_ helped Harry Potter save the planet! It was a good thing, an amazing thing. Although it was at the expense of her relationship with Mother and Father, she wasn't sorry, no, no, not a tad.  
  
  
  
  
  
Upon departure she left a photograph Harry had taken of Ron and her: yesterday, Ron was trying to snatch Crookshanks from the arms of an indignant Hermione. In her familiar cursive, she wrote, "I'll see you soon. Love from Hermione". Cowardly, she decided, such a cowardly action. If she saw him though, she’d think - do - differently; he’d offer to come with her and she did not wish to let that happen. His family needed him more than she did. She brought clothing, tins of beans and books (in case she needed to rework a spell), all of which she'd minimized to fit into her bottomless handbag. With that, she Disapparated to King’s Cross to claim her Portkey.  
  
  
  
  
  
 _September, 1998._  
  
George was motionless. He never shifted in his seat, freckles as pale as death.  
  
His blue eyes wandered once.  
  
When he saw the empty chair beside him, he began to retreat back to his bedroom.  
  
Step, step, step-step-step. Simply walking up the short set of stairs was a painful, physically aching task and the sting stretched from his toes to his abdominal muscles.  
  
Despite his impairment (Molly loathed this word!), he could hear clearly: Ron was pushing his chair back with a loud slam, Harry sighing with fatigue. George envisaged that Molly would firmly place her hand on the back of her youngest son to stop him from leaving his seat.  
  
"Finish your dinner," she huffed, adding that _your brother will be fine_.  
  
The War had hardened George - he saw through his mum; he never used to. She was telling Ron a lie, the type that parents told their child when they didn't know the answer either or when they thought that they knew better.  
  
  
  
  
  
He wasn't particularly fascinated with the domestic comings and goings, but what else was here to occupy his time except to observe his mother smacking Ron's round head?  
  
He knew the war, the one that had cost him a brother and an ear, was for the greater good.  
  
But right now, he was having a hard time believing it to be true.  
  
The end of the bloodshed was a stone being lifted off his shoulders, but to be replaced by a stack of heavy bricks.  
  
His reason for missing his brother... he reckoned that it was the loneliness, and guilt pulsed through his veins because he knew that they had done well. Collectively. The Order, the soldiers, the families. The Wizarding World could now sleep in peace at night.  
  
Thanks to _them_ , though without Fred's subconsciously inconsiderate snoring, the room was uncomfortably quiet.  
  
  
  
  
  
In autumn, he did not tell anyone about the striking pain across his chest when he laughed.  
  
No doubt psychological.  
  
Nor the nightmares that forced him to use the Silencing Charm in order to prevent his family from running into his room at three am.  
  
Arthur and Molly Weasley had enough on their hands.  
  
George. Dear, dear George would turn to face his dad, who was constantly listening to news about the Chudley Cannons on the Wizarding Wireless Network.  
  
Nudging him whenever "we" scored, it seemed that lately all Arthur did was stay at home, reading about Quidditch in the newspaper, which made sneaking off to the local pub for a few rounds of Firewhisky extremely difficult.  
  
George had never been a drinker, but every fibre of his tall, awkward being was instructing him to get sloshed.  
  
Who was he to deny his bodily urges?  
  
Alcohol was goddamn expensive though and he didn’t have a single galleon on him. Ever since Dad's billable hours at work were cut back, they’ve all had to be more careful with their spending.  
  
Like the walls of his bedroom, cracked on the right after hours of mischievous spells with his best friend, their world was crumbling around them.  
  
  
  
  
  
 _November, 1998._  
  
Across the hall from George lived one Harry James Potter.  
  
Harry ate his breakfast, completed his chores, took Ginny to Chinatown in Muggle London and to Bath like she had suggested, but they could see it.  
  
The blank stare and the mechanical behaviour. His reassuring, determined expression that was not reassuring at all to an already uneasy Ron.  
  
He became mercurial, changing his mind more than Fred had picking sweets at Honeydukes at age five.  
  
Harry talked to himself when he thought that nobody was around. Sirius' name was uttered in his bedroom at two am.  
  
Molly, her hand on the doorknob, heard.  
  
In this household a mother too chased her ghosts (slow, _slow_ sprints); how could she possibly pull him from the thunder?  
  
  
  
  
  
Harry Potter's mind was restless, raging on like a tempest from dawn to dusk.  
  
  
  
  
  
On 16 November 1998, Harry Potter fucked his girlfriend.  
  
He’d call it "making love," except for the fact that it really was not.  
  
Which was the exact opposite of what he was hoping to achieve. (He couldn't slip the condom from his pocket without dropping it either, let alone in a suave manner!)  
  
The entire... process was fast and hurried and not much else.  
  
The end result was Ginny chuckling into a pillow with her bra on, half-unhooked at the back.  
  
Harry’s face was buried in his hands.  
  
  
  
  
  
(Let’s hope that the next time would be better.)  
  
Still cringing, tendrils of Harry's untameable hair obscured his features.  
  
“You might want to open them when we try it again,” she suggested deviously.  
  
  
  
  
  
His movements were slower, more controlled.  
  
Thirty minutes ago, adrenaline rush. The end of one teenager’s struggle against his libido (read: aim, release, go go _go_ ).  
  
Now, this actually felt good, gentle and...  
  
Their fingers intertwined -  
  
A single tear fell from his cheek as he gripped her hand.  
  
He probably hadn't, because well, it was him, he was preoccupied with Cho, he was a twat, but he couldn't imagine why he hadn't loved this girl all his life.  
  
  
  
  
  
When they finished, he watched her blink back at him, a blazing look on her face.  
  
Their legs tangled like broken branches on soil.  
  
  
  
  
  
A Quidditch match in the garden, she insisted. (It was pouring, ice-cold, but Harry agreed. He wanted to make her happy.)  
  
He tossed the Quaffle at Ginny and was once again surprised by her fast response.  
  
Violins, violins in an orchestra played along the edge of the cliff. That was the sound of her laugh.  
  
Her ability to fend off the spirits that had haunted others, him most definitely included, was a quality that he admired and was envious of.  
  
  
  
  
  
Their home was located in Devon. A land of fertile meadows, luscious grass.  
  
Though he missed Hermione's constant nagging and Ron making an arse of himself in front of her, he nevertheless appreciated the sunshine in late September.  
  
Before this, death felt like a giant blanket over his head, suffocating and merciless.  
  
Harry grew up nearly imagining that it this war would never end, even long after the Fiendfyres, the Unforgivables and prejudice, but right now he hoped that the not-so-grand conclusion was here. Close by.  
  
This, this belief - and _her_ \- seemed palpable.  
  
The only things he could hold onto anymore.  
  
  
  
  
  
 _December, 1998._  
  
Now, more than ever before, Molly Weasley thrived on routines. She used a charm to ferment the elderberry wine when she woke up at five am precisely. Standing next to the cooker, ready to prepare breakfast for her children and husband, she brought out the eggs, bread, pumpkin, butter and tomatoes. And she’d cook the same thing everyday - it was what they all loved. Breakfast was crucial, especially for adolescents, in maintaining a healthy diet and lifestyle. A columnist in _Witch Weekly_ had explained it clearly. If everyone had a good meal in the morning, people would be more well-equipped, quicker thinkers and competent problem solvers! Think of the progress made in Charms lessons.  
  
Repetition. Patterns. She hoped that it would bring them closer to their life before the war.  
  
It dawned on her that she had been leaving an empty plate opposite George’s seat. She probably hadn’t noticed it because she had arranged for each of the siblings - and Harry - to help clean the dishes, on rotation; they didn’t dare remind her about Fred’s absence. She wouldn't forget.  
  
When the realisation hit her, she wept in the attic. This was the sole moment of grief she allowed herself.  
  
  
  
  
  
Sorrow came in waves and river tides, uncontrolled and wild. She was sick of rowing by herself. Her arms were exhausted... and her bum, aching! She longed to sit beside the dock and throw skipping stones across the water.  
  
Somewhere along the way, downstream, Arthur climbed on board with a life jacket. After thirty years of marriage, he would still gladly take the paddle off her hands as though it weighed nothing at all.  
  
Relief washed over Molly Weasley like a current.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Don't put your feet up, dear," she said with a martyred look. Lifting her fingers to cast wandless magic, Ron fell forward immediately, his outstretched legs were flung and his feet flopped to the floor. For weeks, the living environment was chaotic and now that she had cleaned the house properly she didn’t want him to dirty the stool with his muddy shoes.  
  
" _Mum_!"  
  
Harry sniggered before moving his black castle on the Wizard’s Chess board. The redhead shot him a glare, his brain concocting evil strategies.  
  
"Listen to her, Ron," Arthur put in, lifting his head from behind a book on Muggle pets. He winked. In response, Molly’s eyes crinkled, glittering like the red and green baubles hung on the ceiling.  
  
Though the attention she paid to minute, household details was hardly important, though there was only so much she could fix in the lives of her young heroes, she nevertheless lit up the fireplace. This mother wanted to keep her young cubs protected for as long as she could manage.  
  
She and Arthur gathered around it. Heat spread through the living room as their remaining children followed suit. Ignoring Ron and Harry’s comments in the background, George began humming a Christmas carol in a low voice.  
  
Her boy was like a deflated balloon without his twin, but at least the tension in his shoulders was less evident.  
  
Their daughter clapped along to the song, glancing at the paper chains above the fireplace they had made earlier today: Molly knew that Ginny always preferred those to tinsel.  
  
  
  
  
  
 _January, 1999._  
  
"Dance?" Harry's cheeks were red. "Ginny..."  
  
"Two left feet, Gin? With Harry, try three," George teased, smoothing his wrinkled shirt and trousers. He seemed comfortable, feeding off the noisy vitality in the ballroom. The nutter.  
  
Ron, who had been sulking on account of seeing photos of Hermione with an unfamiliar man in Australia in _The Daily Prophet_ (Ginny added that the Mystery Man was a tour guide Parvarti had recommended!), couldn't help but light up. He pretended to waltz in a circle, stumbling over himself. What became apparent was that he was temporarily filling the void Fred had left. For reasons more complex than two glasses of champagne would allow her to decipher, the reflection terrified her.  
  
"Don't worry, Harry, she's a take-charge type of girl," Ron pointed out, nodding repeatedly.  
  
Harry blushed. He couldn't argue with that. Her proposition hadn't come as a surprise when she had been suggesting it for quite some time now. His girlfriend held the reins in certain aspects of their relationship, namely -  
  
Ginny flared up at her brothers. "When you get off with a dance partner who isn't off her rocker, one you didn't have to Imperius - "  
  
"Ginevra Weasley!" Molly hmmphed, walking closer to her children. "Know how absolutely important this is, behaving! This is our first social event we've been to together, together as a family, since sweet Nimueh knows when, and your father - " She gaped at George. "No funny business. The Ministry has worked _so_ hard to put this together and you owe it to your father to - Percy - Peeeercy! - will keep an eye on you."  
  
George was the first to protest. "But - "  
  
"But, but, but!" Molly repeated, growing more furious by the second. Her chest was heaving, causing the white corsage on her black dress to bounce up and down distractingly. "Lads - "  
  
"But Harry's here! He's responsible," he said smugly. Ginny immediately identified George's tone: by responsible, he meant dull.  
  
She flounced in her blue gown. Catching a glimpse of the Malfoy family holed up in one corner next to Katie Bell and her dad. Their blonde eyebrows knitted, nervously observing the hierarchy in the new order. Somehow Mum's talk on family image reminded Ginny of the nonsense Lucius Malfoy babbled frequently.  
  
What a lifetime ago that was.  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur and Molly were barely dancing, swaying from left to right, from right to left. Her dad didn't seem _unhappy_ , but there was sullenness there. The sight was upsetting for Ginny as Harry struggled to lead. Had she not drilled it into his head ("Left foot forward, right foot side, left foot close..."), they'd look twenty times worse. It didn't help that they were invited to dance first. George was frolicking with one of Phlegm's French cousins (Ginny couldn't, for the life of her, remember the name of this one), while Luna had started talking to Ron about a conspiracy theory involving the International Confederation of Wizards and invisible tissue boxes. The girl used this as an excuse to cheer him up, though if anything, Ron was more out of place now that politics had come into play!  
  
"Sod it." Harry gritted his teeth as he tried his best to step _off_ the tail of Ginny's dress without dropping her. She became self-conscious as well - she swore that Kingsley and a few others were staring at them curiously from the podium and their seats in the large room. Even Harry aside, their family had received a fair share of attention in the last few months due to their unanimous participation in the Battle of Hogwarts.  
  
With Harry's head facing down, incessantly mumbling, she changed her mind - memorizing the box step clearly had not made him more skilled as a dancer.  
  
After further wobbling, Harry finally ceased talking to himself.  
  
 _Kruk._ Her heel broke! She could sense Ministry workers glaring at her, including that amused twenty-something receptionist who always gave Harry one wink too many.  
  
"You're okay, don't worry. I left my wand near our table, why don't we use yours?"  
  
She shook her head, admitting, "I don't have it here with me, Harry."  
  
Witches never left their wands at home - it was as uncustomary as giving up their arm for a day!  
  
Then, her eyes darkened as soon as he guided her out of the ballroom and into the hallway.  
  
"What's the matter?"  
  
  
  
  
  
While trying to mend her silver stilettos, she told him, firmly and matter-of-factly. Explained her eagerness to visit all of these new Muggle places with him, why she used her hand to grind coffee beans with a mortar and pestle this morning.  
  
Doing things the non-magical way seemed like an appropriate penance. After the crucifying things she had seen incantations and curses accomplish, she gave back.  
  
His jaw dropped, absolutely gutted. Not because of the promise she had made to herself, but because he hadn't noticed. Her arm around his neck, their embrace was awkward and comforting.  
  
  
  
  
  
 _April, 1999._  
  
Ron lingered a lot these days. Hovered like a bee, as Harry kindly put it.  
  
 _Bzzz bzzz!_  
  
Ron reckoned that Ginny was probably the most resilient one, seeing how she still had the energy to bellow at everybody. She would also never scold him the way Mum did when he bothered her while reheating the sardines that Percy loved so much. (He came around every Tuesday, Wednesday and Saturday.)  
  
Being the ever-attentive brother, he asked Ginny how she and Harry were doing, doing his very best to not wince at the idea of his sister and closest mate... together.  
  
She raised her eyebrow, a smile playing on her lips. Ron recognized the expression. It was the same one Fred and George wore. She must be up to no good. "We're great. In fact I ought to give you and Lavender a run for your money. Last night... you can't imagine what Harry's tongue - "  
  
He wasn't sure whether his sister was telling the truth or effectively trying to take the mickey out of him, but frankly he didn't dare to ask.  
  
And that was that, he decided, running to the kitchen to meet an extremely busy and self-important Percy.  
  
Percy, the wanker, who had cast a purple bubble around himself to tune out whatever it was that his younger brother was shouting. The twat flicked a page of his book, his chin jutting in the air. The damaged lamp on the table wasn't enough to light up the room, thus Ron had no way of seeing its title. If anything, he bet that it'd read _How Not to Be a Prat 101_ and what use was that anyway? Anything informative went in one ear and out the other. (In one _eye_ and out the other? That'd be fantastic!)  
  
George was at the shop, now back to working every now and then at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Though he was in the office taking care of some administrative aspects of the business, rather than communicating with his customers directly, it was a start. A start that their mum was delighted about and constantly praising. The economic trough had persisted since the fall of Voldemort, but more people - children, parents, teenagers - were visiting Wheezes. Hermione claimed that sweets and colourful packaging allowed wizards to cling to a better place and a time that was now replaced by anxiety and trepidation; Ron believed her.  
  
His father returned to the Ministry as a full-time employee, working diligently behind his desk.  
  
Ron naturally diverted his focus to Harry.  
  
"Stop staring at me," demanded the Boy Who Lived, frowning and muttering something about rubbish. He was holding an application for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It hurt that he hadn't asked Ron to come along, in spite that the redhead probably didn't have a chance at being an Auror. But that was Harry. Pessimistic to a point of stupidity. Was it so hard to believe that they were here, whatever happened? "You're acting weird."  
  
It was true that Ron wanted to help his family, but mostly because he wanted to be taken aback and find out that they needed him somehow. Thank Merlin that Hermione was not here to snap him out of it, declaring him a fool. Saying that they loved him to pieces and that she loved him best... that it didn't matter. That he was going to become a great man.  
  
However, he would admit, learning that they were all right without his intervention was the best surprise he had received for a terribly long time.  
  
The churning in his stomach lessened. He wasn't even tempted to use Magicnet to instant message Charlie, who was now teaching new recruits all about interbreeding in the dragon world.  
  
  
  
  
  
The distance between the Apparition point where Hermione arrived and the Burrow was merely a couple of yards, but somehow it made Ron appear smaller. Hermione noticed his large shoulders, now slumped, and the sleeves that were too short. He seemed scared, wand at the ready.  
  
Anticipating another war, perhaps. The society was vulnerable. Even Hogwarts had months until its reparations would be complete. And it struck her; the one she left behind, this was him.  
  
"Blimey, where the hell have you been?" were the words that he first spoke after their ten-months-and-fourteen-days long separation. But laced with exasperation rather than blame. And she had expected him to yell at her at first.  
  
This was hardly a question. It was a sentiment.  
  
His lips drifted upwards and he soon broke into a goofy, characteristically Ron smile. There was a tinge of happiness that had found its way back to him: it let her know that he was hers and she his. Sobbing, she felt grateful and regretful and heartened.  
  
Cupping her chin with his hand, he watched as she pronounced, "Time..."  
  
Missed him, missed him so damn much. His hands, hot compared to her shivering fingers, confirmed that single thought when he wrapped her small body in his robes. Every emotion etched on his face, she could read it all for he wore his heart on his sleeve and she adored him for it. How she ever said her halfhearted goodbye to this boy she would never know.  
  
Contrary to popular belief, our two young lovers learnt that time failed to heal everything. For this family, it prolonged the pain, salted their fresh wounds, dragged them apart. More than anything, she hoped that it'd bring them back together. Not just Ron and her, but George and his family, Arthur and Molly, Harry and earth.  
  
"D'you know I've - how much I've missed you?"  
  
Ron’s scent was of rock cakes and old leather, courtesy of sleeping on an ancient sofa all year after a long day of baking with a mother who refused to let him out of her sight. Pressed flush against him, Hermione absorbed as much of him as she possibly could. But she slowed down... remembering that she was not in a rush.  
  
They had plenty of –  
  
  
  
  
  
Hermione was not the type to be pushed. Light shoving, of course, was also out of the question.  
  
So he didn't ask her about Mr and Mrs Granger.  
  
Not even when he found her: she, fingers mindlessly tracing circles (Southern Hemisphere; Oceania; Australia; Melbourne) on the world map, as Ron stood on the other side of the half-opened door to the one tidy room in this house. (Listening to her breathe, soft, soft breaths. Humming to herself.)  
  
This vicious circle continued until Ron banged himself against the panel by accident.  
  
"Bloody hell!" he blurted out, then smacked a hand over his mouth. She could make out his face and the cheeks as red as his titian hair.  
  
"Don't be silly. You've been here for days, don't think I haven't noticed. Honestly, Ronald, you're as loud as a hippogriff - " She didn't have the strength to come up with a better quip.  
  
He _err_ ed, apologized and promised to disappear as soon as possible after explaining that he was looking out for her. He didn't want her to be alone. When he was about to leave, her hand reached for his.  
  
  
  
  
  
 _May, 1999._  
  
Things get better. _They_ get better at this, the lot of them.  
  
The carrying on part. The living part.  
  
What is inevitable is an accidental mention (a whispered "Remus might enjoy this spell!" or "Dammit, Mad-Eye once said..."). Or the occasional glance at the family clock to see a missing space where the face of an optimistic, impish young man - a brother, a son - should be, but otherwise, it is safe to say that stunning ache in their hearts is beginning to subside.


End file.
